" "Why not?" "I am a thief, a hunted man. If there is any drinking, I'll do it. All that I regret are the wasted years, and I am not sure that I regret them. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. "I am," replied Jonathan, following him, "and so," he added in an undertone, "are your captors. She doesn't love you; she hasn't the least idea what it means beyond what she has read in novels. " The lad made no answer, but left the room.
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